Christmas with the Dwarfers
by BackForBreakfast
Summary: A Red Dwarf Christmas fanfic. It's Christmas Day aboard the Dwarf: how do Lister, Rimmer, Cat and Kryten take it? Totally complete and tickety boo!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, places etc in Red Dwarf, and I'm making no profit from this fanfic. Hooray!

A/N: Hey everyone! I had a _lot_ of fun writing this fic. Since Christmas is coming up, I thought to myself…what would the Dwarfers do on a Christmas Day when they weren't attacked by some sort of monster? So here's what I came up with! It does get a bit fluffy in places, but hey, it's a Christmas fic!I really hope you enjoy this – I had so much fun writing it! All comments are really appreciated – I would love to know what you think!

So here it is – it's…

**Christmas with the Dwarfers**

**--A Red Dwarf Christmas Fan Fiction--**

Lister clambered down a metal staircase, lazily slipping an arm into the sleeve of his leather jacket. He shrugged it over his shoulders and yawned. The Red Dwarf galley kitchen stretched out in front of him for what seemed like miles, hundreds of pots and pans hanging from racks above rows of polished cookers. He blinked, bleary-eyed.

"Kryten, man, what're you doing down here?" he said, yawning a second time. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, and began to pick out the bits of sleep that stuck stubbornly in his tear ducts. This caused his eyes to run, and he blinked the water away.

Kryten stood over a stove, stirring a pot which contained something that Lister thought looked sickeningly green. At first, he didn't appear to hear him. He took the lid off a second pot, inspected the contents and adjusted the temperature. Above the ferocious bubbling of the boiling water, Lister could hear him humming a rather off-key tune.

"Kryten?" A little louder this time.

"Oh!" exclaimed the mechanoid, suddenly noticing Lister standing in the entrance. "Sorry, sir." He reached for a button on his waist and took out a worn-looking cassette. "Didn't see you there." Lister approached him and leaned on a nearby worktop.

"It's okay," he said. "So what are you up to, man?" He browsed absently through a container of kitchen utensils and plucked out an old-fashioned tin-opener.

"Just up to a spot of home cooking, sir," Kryten replied, opening the oven and pulling out the metal tray with his bare hands. He got out a two-pronged fork and prodded what was inside. "Hmmm. Yes, I think that's coming along quite nicely."

"What's cooking?" Lister asked, fiddling with the tin-opener. He wasn't quite sure how it worked; he was more used to the electric models that were installed before his shift on the Dwarf began. Kryten's face lit up with excitement.

"Prime roast turkey, sir," he announced, waving his hands about in the most enthused manner, "with broccoli, roast parsnips and a whole _harvest_ of brussel sprouts." He grinned. Lister almost dropped the tin-opener, and his face reeled with unmistakable disgust.

"_Broccoli?_" He stressed the word as if it were an abomination, "_Sprouts?_ Get outta town, Kryten. You know I don't like that stuff." He put the tin-opener back in its container and took out a whisk.

"Yes, I've taken that into account, sir," Kryten said, "and I think I've come up with something you'll find quite acceptable." He removed a cloth from a foil container that sat next to the oven. "Voilà!" Lister walked over to it and dipped a finger into the mysterious food.

"Not bad," he said, tasting it, a pensive look on his face. "What is it?"

"Turkey vindaloo, sir," said Kryten, re-covering the dish. "With all the trimmings; poppadoms, chips, everything you could possibly want."

"Brutal!" said Lister, his mouth already starting to water at the prospect of such a gourmet meal. He began to spin the whisk in his hand, and creased his brow, "So why all the effort, Kryte? I mean, why don't you just get something from the food dispensers?"

"There's nothing like a bit of homemade cuisine, sir," Kryten pointed out, stirring a third bubbling pot. "Besides, I thought it especially important that we all get together at this time of year, to share in the happiness of this very special occasion." He busied himself further, deftly slicing a parsnip with one hand whilst stirring the pot with the other.

"Special occasion?" Lister let out an amused laugh. "What, has Rimmer's record collection been destroyed or something?"

"Goodness me!" Kryten exclaimed. "Are you suggesting that you don't know what day it is, sir?" Lister shrugged.

"The three-millionth anniversary of Jim Bexley Speed's historic charge against the Boston Tyrants?" he suggested weakly. Kryten shook his head, closing his eyes.

"Sir, it's Christmas Day!"

"Is it?" Lister was evidently surprised. How could he have lost track of time so badly? "Are you sure?"

Kryten quickly checked, "Well that's what it says on my in-built calendar, sir!"

* * *

Rimmer looked at his watch. Eleven o' clock, on the dot, just as he had planned. Clicking the top of his hologrammatic biro, he glanced at the first title on the shelf: _Astronavigation and Quantum Theory_. He adjusted his clipboard, then scrawled it down in his tiny copperplate hand. 

Lister stumbled into the bunkroom holding a can of Leopard Lager. He thrust himself down onto a seat and heaved his legs up onto the table. Rimmer pretended not to notice, and added another item to his list.

"Yo Rimmer, has Hol told you the news?" Lister flicked open the can and watched the froth spill through his fingers.

_The Mechanics of Porous Circuits_ was the next intimidating heading. Rimmer jotted it down. "What news?" he said, rather absently.

"Apparently, it's Christmas Day," said Lister, taking a sip of the lager. Rimmer turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really?" he said, scoffing a little. "How wonderful for you." He turned back to the books and hesitated before hastily adding another title.

"Cheer up, Scrooge," said Lister with a grin. "Surely you can't be this way on Christmas."

"En contraire, Listy," Rimmer replied. "I can be whatever way I like, thank you so very much." He pressed his pen to the paper.

"But on _Christmas?_" Lister stressed, picking at a curry stain on his jacket. "C'mon, Rimmer, you _must_ have some good memories of that." Rimmer clicked his pen and slid it neatly into the top of the clipboard.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you Listy?" he said. "Only, Christmas for you wasn't geared around trying to avoid three overachieving brothers who would prefer to see you roasting on the spit than sitting at the dinner table."

"Come on, Rimmer," Lister sighed, wiping some of the foam from the can onto his jacket. "It can't have been _that_ bad." He took his feet off the table, got up and walked to the fridge. Opening it up, he found it surprisingly empty. He began to sift through the few bottles and containers that sat inside.

"No, I'm not joking – they actually tried to do it once," Rimmer said, glancing at him from across the room. "Christmas Eve, they crept into my room with a bobbing apple and a length of rope. If they hadn't stepped on that creaky floorboard I swear to God I would have been next day's dinner."

Lister didn't look up. "They were only teasing," he said. "That's what brothers do. Surely you've had Christmas cards from them, though." He took out a bottle of a strange, red-coloured sauce and examined the label.

Rimmer growled, "Yes, and every time I get one, it makes me _sick_. Precocious goits, always going on about how hard life is in the Space Corps, and how much they'd _love_ to switch places with me, only the responsibility is so great that it's impossible." He placed the hologrammatic clipboard on the table, at which it instantly disappeared, and wrung his hands together. "I'd like to see one of _them_ spending hours unclogging chicken soup machines with the end of a nozzle cleaner."

As if purposely interrupting his train of thought, a familiar voice erupted from somewhere down the corridor. Rimmer placed his head in his hands, and drew his palms down his face as the Cat came screeching in.

"Hey!" Cat's enthusiasm was a burst of fresh air to the room's stale atmosphere. "What's happening, buds?" He span in a perfect dancing circle and slid smoothly into the room. His outfit of choice (for it changed as often as his mood) was a crimson dinner-jacket, long, elegant black trousers, and a pair of fashionably-heeled shoes. Lister stood up, kicking the fridge door shut. He took another sip of his lager.

"Yo, Cat," he said. "Where've you been?"

Cat began to skulk around the shelves and cupboards that lined the walls of the bunkroom. "Investigating," he said, darting his eyeballs from side to side. "A very _special_ kind of investigating. My nose has been tingling so bad that I've had to move fast to keep up with it." Lister sat down and put his feet back onto the table.

"So you've heard the news then?"

Cat scoffed, "Do dogs have fleas? Where did you think I'd been, anyway?" He opened a cupboard, peered in, smiled, and closed the door. Lister turned to him, an expression halfway between doubt and curiosity etched on his face.

"You mean _Cats_ celebrate Christmas?" he asked.

"Sure we do, grease stain!" said Cat, almost offended at his insinuation. "It's the most important time of the year!" He moved further around the wall, lithe and poised, as if searching for something. Coming across the sink mirror, he grinned an enormous grin. His teeth glinted whitely back at him, creating the illusion that even his reflection was pleased with his appearance. He adjusted his collar. "Well, I'm done with my investigating here. See you, monkeys. I'd better get busy finding some presents!"

He twirled again, screeched, and launched himself out of the room in a fully-blown moonwalk. That was the way of the Cat: he was gone almost as quickly as he appeared. Lister took a thoughtful sip of his lager. _The Cat? Buying presents for people?_ Something had to be amiss.

"That's unlike him," he said to Rimmer, placing the can on the table. "Doing something for someone else, I mean."

A single grunt was all he got in reply.

* * *

The clock on the bunkroom wall read 2:30pm. Lister sifted through a horribly grubby backpack, removing something that could only just be identified as a rather old and mouldy sandwich. The mould had seeped through the soggy bread and onto the packaging, resulting in a mushy, squishy mess that even he found disgusting. He dropped it onto the desk, where it landed with a resounding 'plop'. Still, for a backpack he hadn't used for over a year, it was relatively clean. 

He bent down and fumbled through a cupboard, taking out anything and everything that might be of use on the journey. A flashlight, an old computerised map, a pair of rusty scissors; no object escaped his discretion. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of curry sauce, and shoved it quickly into the bag. If the quality of the lift food was anything to go by, it would be essential to his mission, and perhaps, he thought wryly, to his survival.

"Lister?" Rimmer strode into the room, wearing his emerald-green suit and his jet-black boots which were always polished to a mirror shine. Even Rimmer's walk was an exaggerated march, so much so that he would not look out of place in an army parade as it valiantly went off to battle. Lister slid aside a box of matches and felt around at the back of the cupboard. _Where the smeg was his Holly watch?_

"Yeah?" he replied, only half-concentrating on what Rimmer was saying.

"I know this is probably beyond you, Listy," the hologram began, "but have you been reading my books?"

Lister turned to face him, "Your books?" He shot him a teasing look, "Quite frankly Rimmer, I'd rather dangle upside-down from the top of the cargo bay, have me tender regions sprinkled with triple-strength catnip and call for the order to let loose the tigers." He turned back to the cupboard, closed it and opened another one.

Rimmer put his hand to his chin, "That's what I thought. Only, one of them seems to have disappeared." Lister knew when Rimmer was agitated. "Or have books learnt to _walk_ during the last few hours?"

"I don't know," Lister sighed, rather inattentively. "Go ask the Cat – maybe he's seen it." He put something else into the bag. Rimmer sighed and placed his hands on his hips.

"Lister, the only thing _he_ sees is himself, and far too often if you ask me," he said, his words dripping with acid. His attention suddenly turned to Lister's filth-covered backpack, which sat precariously on the seat of a chair, several objects peeking out and threatening to clatter onto the floor. An expression of amusement crept onto his face. "So, doing a bit of tidying up, are we Listy? I must say, we _are_ seeing some strange things today."

Lister closed the other cupboard and got to his feet. Fastening the clasps on the bag, he looked up at Rimmer, "Nah - I'm going to get some presents. Y'know, to get in the Christmas spirit and all that."

"Well," said Rimmer, inspecting his fingernails, "it's all a load of tot as far as I'm concerned. We can easily get anything we like on the ship, Listy – at any time of the year, let alone today." He brandished his palm. Lister shook his head.

"You've got no Christmas spirit, have you, Rimmer?" he said, heaving the bag over his shoulder. "What about giving, generosity? Take...take that scene in 'It's A Wonderful Life'. The whole town of Bedford Falls gathered together in one room, celebrating the spirit of Christmas. I mean what it means to be alive, and all that. Didn't that move you at all?" Rimmer eyed him nonchalantly.

"I'm a realist, Lister," he said. "We're not talking about a movie where the lines are so coated in cheese that they begin to resemble one of your healthier breakfasts." He started toward the door, then added in an irritated voice, "And where's Kryten smegged off to?" Surely _he_ would have seen the book. Whenever the mechanoid cleaned their quarters, he would rearrange their possessions. Sometimes they went missing altogether, only to be found at the back of some dark cupboard that nobody ever opened.

"The kitchen, I think," Lister replied. Without so much as a thank you, Rimmer spun on his heels and left the room, his silent footsteps leaving not so much as an echo in the corridor. Making sure he was gone, Lister went to a cabinet on the wall, opened it and took out a tube of wood glue. He put it into his bag for later.

* * *

Kryten poured a little more sugar onto the scales, and tipped it into his mixing bowl. Dinner was going to be perfect, and nothing made Kryten happier than perfection. He slit open a packet of currants and began emptying them into the mixture. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rimmer sitting at one of the long galley tables.

"Another page, sir?" he offered, stirring the bowl with a wooden spoon (Rimmer had forbidden him to use his groinal attachment, no matter how much easier the job would have been). Rimmer let out an affirmative grunt. Kryten walked over to him and turned a page in the book he was reading. "Looking through some old memories, Mr Rimmer?" he inquired, noticing that the page was covered in photos, stuck down with a combination of weak tape and old, stringy glue.

"This," Rimmer pointed to a slightly battered photo, "is the Christmas nativity play at Io House. We had one every year." Kryten engaged his zoom mode. "Great group of lads, those were," Rimmer continued wistfully. "Very professional, never a minute late for rehearsals. Ours was the top school production that year, you know."

Kryten furrowed his brow as much as he could through his angular features. "I don't appear to see you there, sir."

"You wouldn't," said Rimmer, rather dryly. "I played the star. I had to dangle from the top of the stage by a wire for three hours straight. Still," he mused, "it was better than the next year's."

"What was that, sir?"

"_The Princess and the Pea_. The boys thought it'd be funny to have me play the latter." He looked blankly forward at nobody in particular. "I nearly suffocated under all those mattresses. In the end they had to call in a specialist doctor from Callisto just to prise my head out from underneath."

"Hey, I thought I smelt something down here!" a voice came from the stairway before Kryten could reply. Cat dance-stepped down the stairs, carrying an enormous bag over his shoulder. "It's a Cat rule: if something smells like dog-breath, you guys are nearby. Yow!" He slid over to the table Rimmer was sitting at and leapt onto a seat. Swinging the bag over his shoulder, it landed on the table with a force so great that it caused a slight tremor. A load – no, a hoard – of presents tumbled out onto the metal surface. Wrapped in blue, and red, and green, they were as immaculately presented as one of the Cat's outfits.

"Where on _Io_ did you get all that from?" Rimmer said, evidently annoyed at his sudden entrance. But the Cat was too involved with the contents of the bag to answer. He took the first present in the pile – a small, blue package – and began to shred off the wrapping as if it were alive. He opened the box inside to reveal an old, slightly scratched watch. It blinked into life as Holly's face appeared in its surface.

"Oh, finally," she said. "Cor blimey, it was 'orrible in there. Black as anything. Completely lost track of time."

"Okay!" Cat screeched. "Let's see what else I've got!" He closed the box again (to the sound of Holly's muffled annoyance) and grabbed another present, slightly larger this time, and wrapped in green paper. Tearing apart the wrapping, he pulled out a rather thick and daunting book. Rimmer recognised it immediately.

"Ugh!" said Cat in disgust. "Who got me _that_ one? No presents for _you_, buddy." He threw the book down onto the table.

"What do you think you're _doing_, you flea-bitten moggy?" Rimmer seethed.

Cat looked at him with an air of indifference, "What you talking about, goalpost-head?"

"_Why_," said Rimmer, his voice growing increasingly angry, "have you been taking my possessions?"

"Because it's Christmas!" Cat gave his answer as if it was obvious. "I've got to have some presents, haven't I?"

"You _give_ presents to each other, you stupid cat – you don't just go around taking other people's things!" Rimmer felt himself wince slightly as he said this; did he ever give anything at all?

"_What!_" Cat exclaimed in disbelief. "You monkeys are stupider than I thought! There is no way I'm coming to any of _your_ parties, bud. Giving out some of your own stuff! You people are crazy!"

Rimmer buried his head in his hands and let out a barely audible groan from between his palms. Cat turned his attention to the next present on the stack, and although he already knew what it was, shook it wildly in an attempt to hear what was inside. Kryten peered into the oven again.

"I do wish Mr Lister would hurry up," he said, fussing over a tray of potatoes. "The turkey's almost ready!"

"Where is the goit, anyway?" Rimmer asked, attempting to divert his attention from Cat, who was reeling in excitement that his next present was a pair of earrings he'd found in one of the abandoned officer's quarters.

"He said that he was going for a spot of shopping in the ship's mall, sir," Kryten replied. "He's been gone for quite a while now."

"Oh, not _this_ again," Rimmer sighed. "I tell you, Kryten, I really think all those black and white films have gone to his head." _Christmas_, he thought to himself. _What a smegging waste of time_.

* * *

A/N: Onto Chapter two! Please review - I'd love to hear your comments! 


	2. Chapter 2

For the disclaimer, see the first chapter.

* * *

**Christmas with the Dwarfers**

**--Chapter Two--**

It was a rather unlikely scene; a mechanoid, a hologram, the last human being alive and a creature who had evolved from his cat, all stood around a Christmas table. Kryten had lived up to his promise; everything on the table was immaculate, from the folded napkins to the little name cards that he had worked on so meticulously.

"But there's only four of us," said Rimmer, spying his name written in calligraphic lettering on a piece of folded cardboard. "What's the point of having a seating plan?"

"There's nothing wrong with a bit of formality, sir," Kryten reminded him. "I simply couldn't resist." He started to set out wine glasses upside-down on the table. "Goodness, I haven't had a chance to do something this special since Christmas on the Nova 5." He nudged a glass into position.

"Is there anything we can do to help, Kryte?" asked Lister, taking note of the mechanoid's nervous movements.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr Lister sir," Kryten replied, smiling. "Now, if you'd like to sit down, I'll just get out the main course." He walked over to the oven, plodding along in his curious mechanical way. Lister sat happily in his designated seat; Rimmer sat down as if it were the most difficult thing in the world. He'd protested to Kryten; after all, how could a hologram eat a Christmas dinner?

"I've arranged for Holly to cook up a simulation for you, Mr Rimmer," Kryten had explained. "You won't even notice the difference."

Of course, it wouldn't taste as good - eating hologrammatic food was the equivalent of eating with a horribly bad cold, where all the senses are dulled and lessened except in extreme cases of taste or flavour - but it would look the part. Lister gave an amused grin as he saw the expression on the hologram's face.

"Cheer up, Rimmer," he beamed. "It could be worse." Rimmer eyed him scathingly.

Kryten, carrying a large and elaborately decorated tray, returned from the oven. After asking Lister to move his hat, he placed it in the centre of the table, evidently pleased with his efforts.

"Well, tuck in, sirs," he said, pressing his hands together in excitement. "There's plenty for everyone!"

* * *

Lister mopped up the last piece of his vindaloo with the end of his finger, savouring the aftertaste as if it were the last meal he would ever eat. "That was great, Kryten," he said, reaching for the wine glass filled with lager. "And when I say great, I mean it. Honest. I don't even need an extra bucket of water to cool me stomach."

Kryten smiled, "Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me." He glanced at the others. Rimmer picked absently at a piece of hologrammatic turkey that had turned cold on his plate, whilst Cat juggled three sprigs of leftover broccoli. "I do hope you sirs thought the same." They didn't look up.

After a few long moments, Lister thought it apt to break the silence.

"Well, if nobody minds, I've got me own little surprise," he said with a smile. He reached underneath the table and brought the horribly grubby rucksack onto his lap. "See, since we haven't celebrated Christmas before – together, I mean - I thought I'd get everyone a present." Rimmer sat back in his chair and folded his arms, a wry expression on his face.

"I'm sitting opposite someone cheesy enough to make the Mills and Boon holiday edition."

Lister ignored him, "Cat, this one's for you." He passed him a small box. Cat took it from him, looking rather confused. He rattled the package, hearing something move inside.

"I don't know why you humans do this," he said. "A Cat wouldn't be seen dead giving away presents to anyone – especially not you. Can you imagine what that'd do to my reputation?" He looked at the box with suspicion, as if something might jump out of it at any moment.

Lister laughed, "Just open it." Cat gave him a slight glare, revealing his gleaming white teeth, and started to unwrap the rather shoddily-wrapped item. Opening it up, he found it to be a rectangle-shaped piece of plastic. He turned it over and turned it back again. "It's a key card," Lister said, it being evidently aware that the Cat had no idea what to do with it. "You use it in the food dispensers. Swiped it from one of the top officers' stores; lets you get as many meals as you like in one day."

"Hey, thanks bud!" Cat grinned, putting down his napkin and getting up from the table. "I think I'll go try it out right now!" Kryten looked at him, puzzled.

"But sir, you've just eaten!"

"Exactly!" the Cat beamed, unaware of his implication. "And I don't know about you, but _I'm_ going to try and get the taste out of my mouth!" He dance-shuffled across the floor and headed up the stairs, letting out a screech that was so high-pitched that it was painful to the ears. Kryten looked suitably hurt.

"Don't worry, Kryte," said Lister, digging around in the rucksack in an attempt to blot the incident from the mechanoid's mind. "Here." He pulled out a slightly larger parcel. "This one's for you."

Kryten took it gingerly, "Thank you, sir." He opened one of the ends, and slid out a complicated-looking manual, followed by a host of computer cards.

"I checked out the science labs," said Lister, "and found some GTi components that might come in useful." Kryten was already halfway through reading the instructions. All the extras were there.

"A slide-back sunroof head!" he exclaimed, pointing to a diagram on the page. "Just what I've always wanted. Oh, _thank you_, sir," he said again. He continued to scan the manual for other essentials. Extra radio channels, anti-grav capabilities, even instructions for an in-built CD drive to replace the old-fashioned cassettes. He was the closest he could get to Silicon Heaven.

"Welcome, Kryters!" Lister said happily. "And hold on a sec, Rimmer," he continued, getting out of his seat. "Yours is out here. Don't think I've forgotten you."

Rimmer rolled his eyes, "Heaven forefend."

Ignoring Rimmer's sarcasm, Lister went to one of the side entrances and began to pull something out of the doorway. It was evidently quite heavy, as he strained to do it by himself. As it came around the corner, it eventually dawned upon Rimmer what it was.

"It's a bit of a botched job," admitted Lister, placing the object gently down by one of its handles, "but it's the best I could do with the time." He stood there, slightly wheezing from the effort. Rimmer's Javanese camphor wood chest, the one Lister had mutilated on their spell on the ice moon, sat next to him. Lister opened the lid to reveal the back panel. He had hammered some replacement material into the gap, using an excessive amount of wood glue which seeped out of its edges as a sealant. True, it wasn't camphor wood. It wasn't even Javanese. But it was a great deal better than that empty hole.

Rimmer's first thought was to indict Lister of mutilating the object further – the white wood glue had dried white, and left a permanent stain on the camphor wood surrounding it. But he didn't. He said nothing at all.

* * *

Lister rolled over in his bunk to face the neon green clock which hung on the back wall of the room. Narrowing his eyes to bring the blindingly bright numbers into focus, he checked the time. Three-thirty. He let out a sleepy groan, rolled back over and closed his eyes.

He often had trouble sleeping. The ship made strange noises at night; the pipes creaked, and distant metallic clangs from floors above and below rang in his ears, and echoed for minutes after. It was a sad sound, the sound of a vessel that had outdone its service, and was just now beginning to succumb to the awesome power of time. He couldn't sleep. He threw off his covers and pushed himself out of the bed, landing with a thump on the floor.

Rimmer didn't appear to wake. Lister blindly grabbed his jacket from his chair and began to feel his way to the door, using only the neon light as a guide. Each of his footsteps made an excruciating creak. He never understood that about footsteps; it was only when you were trying to be quiet that they seemed to make the loudest noise possible.

"Lights," he yawned, closing the bunkroom door behind him with a push on the palm-pad. He drudged sleepily into the conjoining room. Immediately the lights came on, causing Lister to shield his eyes before he became adjusted to the brightness.

"Can't sleep?"

"Rimmer?" said Lister, recognising the voice. "What are you doing in 'ere?" He rubbed sleep from his eyes. Rimmer sat on a chair, still wearing his emerald-green outfit, and looked at him.

"I couldn't sleep either." He turned to one of the angular windows, but it was difficult to make out the multitude of stars from the reflection of the light in the glass. "It's just – I've never had a Christmas present from anyone." He paused. "Not a real present, anyway. Not unless you count the lumps of Ionian ore my brothers put in my stocking each year."

"C'mon, man," said Lister. "Don't get so hung up on this. Didn't your parents get you anything?" He leant against the bunkroom door and stifled a yawn. Knowing Rimmer's family though, he strongly doubted it.

"My parents?" Rimmer almost scoffed, as if the very idea itself was absurd. "My father stood by a strict ratio; the number of presents we got was directly proportional to the number of times we won the Astronavigation quiz at the dinner table." He looked down at his hands, which were wrung together.

"Well, we're all a part of the crew," said Lister. "We work together; we're the posse, the Boyz from the Dwarf." He paused, "Besides, I had to give you _something_ for keeping me sane all these years, didn't I?" He looked at Rimmer and smiled.

Rimmer glanced up at him, and a thought occurred to him that had never entered his mind before. Perhaps, just maybe, knowing every single Space Corps Directive didn't matter. Perhaps Christmas was more than knowing the maximum velocity of fifty different spacecraft. Maybe there was something more valuable than any of that. He didn't say anything; after all, Rimmer was Rimmer. But two words formed clearly in his mind that he never thought he'd think on Christmas.

_Thank you.

* * *

_

Kryten's auto-alarm buzzed on, jolting him out of his offline state and into a frenzy of excitement. It was Christmas Day on the Nova 5, and a most special day indeed for mechanoids. All the crew, mostly Americans, would gather for an enormous Christmas party in the middle of the day. It was a huge affair. There were streamers, party hats, and mountains of sticky Christmas cake laced with a white and sumptuous icing laid out on the tables.

It was the day on which Kryten, and the other few service mechanoids aboard the craft with whom he was acquainted, were welcomed into the team as it were, and honoured as part of the crew. They would eat with the humans, and afterwards sing a mixture of carols and popular songs, culminating in a wonderful group performance of 'God Bless America' to remind them that they were never far from home. They would even engage in the crew's drunken game of Twister (though to be fair, the translation mechanoid, with its extendable arms and legs, had a clear advantage).

However, it was not this that Kryten most looked forward to, but the aftermath of the event. Hundreds of dirty dishes, trodden-on napkins and blown-out party poppers lay strewn over the floor as if a hurricane had swept through the room...and it was a dream come true! He would spend hours tidying things away, polishing, sweeping, making sure everything was as perfect and spotless as it had been before. He was almost disappointed when he'd finished. Ah well, he would think. There was always next year.

For mechanoids, Christmas was a very special time indeed.

* * *

The unnamed creature crept silently over the tops of the dome-like houses. Under the few pinpricks of light that shone from the cavern roof, he was almost invisible – and he liked it that way. He prowled on further, sticking his hand into each abandoned hovel.

His father, deeply religious, had warned him not to do this; that it was against the ancient Cat laws that had been passed down through the ages. But he was not like his father. He delved into another hut and pulled out a tin of food. He smiled, the light glinting from his pointed teeth, and put it into his bag. Supplies were running low; that's why they'd left. So he took what he could find.

He leapt silently onto the ground and began to pace down one of the wide streets that ran through the city. This landscape of surreal hovels went on for miles, expanding to the very edges of the cavern walls. He was too big for them now. It was Cat lore that his ancestors were much smaller in size. But he didn't care. He swung the bag over his shoulder and turned into the next street. There were too few of them left; they wouldn't mind a few things going missing.

* * *

"Get your things together," Dave's grandmother said in her thick Liverpudlian accent, "or we won't be going anywhere, alright?" She could be a grouch sometimes, but he knew she had a good heart. She was short, having shrunk in that strange way that old people do. She smoked a pipe, wore thick-rimmed glasses, and had reams of tattoos etched into the loose skin on her arms. Sometimes she would stretch them so that a character appeared to open and close its mouth. This always made him laugh.

Dave pulled on his bright red Wellingtons, "I'm coming, gramma!" He loved Christmas. Perhaps, he thought excitedly to himself, it would be the day he'd complete his Lego set. Christmas was the one day of the year that he could forget he was adopted. He felt as if he were a part of a family, a family that welcomed and accepted him as one of their own. And it was a wonderful feeling.

She had promised him a walk in the park, the big one with the mansion house. It had snowed afresh, and a thick carpet of white lay across the frozen ground, untouched and unspoiled. Frost clung to the trees, framing it in a delicate patchwork of ice. She held his gloved hand as they walked toward the playground. Maybe Duncan would be there, he thought excitedly. This was before he moved. He ran, laughing, toward the swings.

But his favourite part was yet to come. In the evening, they would sit on the sofa together and slip in an old, worn-out recording of his favourite film – Frank Capra's 'It's A Wonderful Life'.

And for that one day, it really was.

* * *

Arnold didn't want to get out of bed. He pulled his covers over him further so that only the very top of his hair stuck out from underneath. Pushing some of the quilt upwards, he gave himself a hole to breathe through. He felt for a moment as if he were inside an igloo, warm and protected from the outside world. But this moment was shattered as he heard the sound coming from downstairs.

_Thump-thump-thump._

He emerged from his igloo and looked out of the window. Jupiter loomed like a distant monster, its eye glaring at him through the glass. The plumes of Ionian volcanoes rose on the horizon. He hid under the covers again. He could hear his brothers laughing. They would get presents today; model spaceships, clothes, books. He quietened his breathing. The thumping became louder.

"Arnold!" A voice like thunder erupted from the stairway outside his room. "I've told you twice already – come downstairs. Don't spoil Christmas for the rest of the family." The voice was full of rage; it was shouted rather than said, an order, not a suggestion. But he couldn't go. He was deathly afraid, even more afraid than he was at Io House. He sometimes thought it silly that one should be afraid of one's own family. But that was the way it was. There was nobody there to protect him; nobody to tell him that things would be all right; nobody to turn to.

He knew what he wanted for Christmas.

He wanted a friend.

* * *

A/N: Please review! And Merry Christmas everybody! Hope it's a great one for you! 


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